


ARZAMASSKAIA

by novoaa1



Series: find you again [5]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Not the sexy kind), (again not the sexy kind), (also not the sexy kind), Aftermath of Violence, Alexei Shostakov | Alexi Shostakov Being an Asshole, BAMF Reader, Biblical History (Abrahamic Religions), Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Brief Mentions of Outer Space, Bruises, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Chemicals, Choking, Computer Programming, Computers, Confined Spaces, Deja Vu, Discussion of killing, Discussion of the Avengers, Dissociation, Evil Corporations, Figures of Speech, Gen, Girls with Guns, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Handcuffs, Hazmat Suits, IVs, Insomnia, Knives, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Memory Suppressing Machine | The Chair (Marvel), Mentioned Ozzy Osbourne, Mentioned/Referenced Christianity, Mild Blood, Minor Original Character(s), Mission Related, Needles, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Restraints, Roxxon Corporation, Russia, Scars, Sign Language, Snooping, Swearing, Sweat, Tight Spaces, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Yelena Belova is a Little Shit, grumpy yelena belova, non-consensual medical treatment, please read tags before proceeding, reader is not a fan of puzzles, redacted documents, yelena belova needs a hug, РЖЯ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:34:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29103390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “Two targets,” Madame’s cold, even voice interrupts your inner musings. You glance up only to find her staring right back at you. It’s... unnerving, to say the least. “They are to be eliminated by any means necessary. Both are highly skilled and well-trained. In fact, I’m sure you must recognize them.”Her words echo in your brain.‘Eliminated’... ‘by any means necessary.’Already, they’ve managed to take the term ‘shitshow’ to an entirely new level—even by your standards.Or: Bit by bit, you start to settle into something of a routine back in Russia.From there, an unconventional mission briefing with the new Madame will present a harrowing ultimatum.... But everything is not as it seems, and the more you manage to piece things together, the more you finally start to notice.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, Natasha Romanov (Marvel) & Reader, Wanda Maximoff & Reader, Wanda Maximoff/Reader, Yelena Belova & Natasha Romanov, Yelena Belova & Reader
Series: find you again [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099409
Comments: 34
Kudos: 130





	ARZAMASSKAIA

**Author's Note:**

> hey kids. how we doin' 
> 
> READ THE TAGS BEFORE PROCEEDING PLEASE
> 
> thank you. had some time to kill in quarantine ('cause it got extended from 3 days to 10) so uh. here we are

It goes something like this: You wake in a strange, dreary place. It feels both familiar and utterly foreign in equal parts—a frustrating juxtaposition, to be clear. 

You’ve got a bullet hole in your left shoulder, a badly broken nose that won’t stop bleeding, and a host of bruises littering your body—all of which you can’t for the life of you remember getting. 

You get the shit slapped out of you by a tall blonde Madame with storm-grey eyes and a permanently upturned nose, spar with another girl your age who knows you but refuses to tell you how, and find a charming message past-you carved into the crease of your knee in the communal showers. Two words: ‘ _Protect Natalia_.’ 

Before you can blink, night has fallen. 

You lie down atop a creaky mattress with one wrist cuffed to the bed frame and age-old strife compressing your lungs, a million questions floating through your head. 

You don’t sleep. 

You doze for a bit—sentry mode. A couple times, sheer exhaustion perforates your mental fortitude and forcibly tugs you into a deeper sleep. It never lasts for long. 

Something always jolts you awake—images in your head; the notes of an Ozzy Osbourne song drifting through your scattered recollections; the phantom sensation of warm, wet blood pooling in your trembling hands. 

Yelena takes you to breakfast at 5:00am sharp. The commissary is empty save for one occupant: a bleary-eyed woman with short close-cropped blonde hair and a wicked scar running from the tragus of her left ear down to the negligible Adam’s apple of her throat. 

You let her catch you staring, just to see what she’ll do. The fierceness of her brown-eyed glower as it rises to meet your own is more than enough to convince you not to run the same experiment twice. 

The morning passes by in something of a blur. Sparring, weapons training, a top-up on your serum transfusion that makes you throw up in your mouth a little bit. 

You sit in a medical chair, held down by metal restraints around your ankles, waist, wrists, and neck. Fresh tidal waves of nausea find you swallowing down your own vomit and fighting every iota of your being that’s screaming for you to rip out the IV—not like you could, of course, but it’s the thought counts, or… something. 

You try your best not to focus too hard on the sensation of steel bands fastened securely around your limbs: cold, hard, unyielding. 

No point in panicking. You won’t be going anywhere until the treatment’s finished. 

Your veins are ice; the flesh around the needle that pierces the crook of your elbow is slowly losing its dusky color… turning a grey-ish shade of blue even as you do your best to keep from squirming. 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

To pass the time, you charge headfirst into a familiar mental exercise—SITREP.

Yes, you can manage that. 

Russia. The Black Room Academy. 

They put you in the chair. They wiped you. 

With gritted teeth, you force yourself to think in more detail—longer sentences. 

The food could be better. It’s this grey, viscous slop; the same for every meal. If you squint at it hard enough, you can almost convince yourself that it’s porridge… well, if porridge tasted like Elmer’s glue. 

The cold, bitchy blonde is still exactly that—cold and bitchy. 

You don’t yet have confirmation that she is, in fact, the Madame in this branch of the Black Room Academy—that is, sans Yelena’s passive assent during sparring. But from the way everyone (even the beefiest guys) seem to scuttle at her beck and call, you think it’s probably a fair assumption to make. 

_Ah. That’s better_. 

You don’t understand why the tall, broad-shouldered blonde with a pinkish scar on his cheek and a permanent scowl already seems to hate you so goddamned much. 

He walks around these days with a noticeable limp, like he sustained a fairly serious knee injury as of late. Maybe it’s got something to do with that. 

You still have no idea what went down with Yelena. You have no idea if the two of you were friends, enemies, or somewhere in between. (From what you’ve gathered thus far, you’d bet it’s likely the last one.)

You don’t know why you’re dreaming of Hawai’i and ocean eyes and silver rings scattered across an otherwise spotless coffee table. 

You don’t know who the hell Natalia is, or why past-you was so intent on protecting her. 

You don’t know why hearing yourself speak in Russian is akin to the sound of nails on a chalkboard, yet uttering even a word of Spanish feels like coming home. 

Almost as soon as the thought registers, you do away with it. You have no home. 

There’s just so much you don’t understand… so much that feels like it should be known unto you, but just simply fucking isn’t. 

And Christ, but you’re tired of this. 

This isn’t the first time they wiped you. You don’t know much, but you damn well know that. 

You’re so fucking tired of catching a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror only to find a stranger staring back at you. 

You’re tired of waking up in strange places not knowing the day or the month or even the year. You’re tired of seeing past lives in everything you do… past lives you’re not sure have ever belonged to you in the first place. 

Above all else, you’re tired of this never-ending game of “Guess the killer.” You’re tired of finding bits and fragments of your past like puzzle pieces, putting one or two of them together only to have someone take the entire puzzle away and bring you a different one. 

You shake your head and suppress a shudder, winter pumping through your veins. 

Puzzles are fucking stupid, anyways. 

— —

Your nose is far from healed when you examine it in the mirror, but the swelling has gone down significantly, and it doesn’t bleed unless someone hits you. In your book, that’s a win.

The black-ish bruising around your neck has faded to a sickly green, peppered with hints of wilting purple. It throbbed like a bitch when Yelena pinned you down in sparring earlier, but talking and breathing doesn’t hurt anymore, so you chalk that up as a definite win, too. 

The bullet wound has scabbed over and begun to scar around the edges—a swarthy pink-ish hue that contrasts the darker shades of your skin quite nicely, if you’re being perfectly honest. 

The message carved into the crease of your knee is long since healed—thank you, blue IV bags of weird-smelling serum—but that’s of little consequence. 

The words—‘ _Protect Natalia_ ’—are seared into your brain like a third-degree burn. You don’t think you could forget them if you tried. 

“ _Vanity of vanities_ ,” comes Yelena’s voice from your side, where she splashes cold water from the sink onto her bloodied face and shoots you a bland look. “ _All is vanity_.”

You turn to spare her a glance. You know those words… “ _Ecclesiastes_ ,” you murmur, more to yourself than to her. 

Yelena raises a brow, her gaze darting from you to the mirror and back again. 

You roll your eyes, turn on your heel, and walk off. “ _I never took you for a God-fearing Christian_.” You call over your shoulder as you drop the towel, toss it over the bench, and snatch up your underthings. 

Yelena snorts, shutting off the faucet with an audible _squeak_. “ _Please_.” Her footfalls are silent as she pads over to join you, tossing her towel over the bench beside yours and reaching for her clothes. “ _I am a Widow_.”

You tug on your panties and a sports bra, eyeing her curiously all the while. “ _But not the Black Widow_,” you say. “ _She was someone else_.”

Yelena raises a brow, unfolding her sports bra and pulling it over her head. “ _Your point_ ?” There’s an edge to her tone that wasn’t there before, you note. Interesting. 

“ _Did she die_ ?”

Something cold and angry flits through Yelena’s gaze, though it’s come and gone far too quickly for you to analyze it any further. “ _What does it matter_ ?”

“ _Do you miss her_ ?”

Yelena freezes for a moment, then recovers quickly to send you a glare that borders on murderous. “ _Hurry up_ ,” she says instead, yanking a fresh pair of leggings up her bruise-ridden legs. “ _We’re going to be late_.”

You don’t roll your eyes, but it’s a close thing. “ _Late for what_ ?”

“ _Mission briefing_.”

_Oh. That could prove interesting_. 

— —

You walk shoulder-to-shoulder alongside Yelena down the halls, looking to her for guidance when you reach a part in the leftmost wing of the Academy you’ve yet to explore. 

The ghost of a smirk tugs at her lips, but she takes the lead without comment. 

Two rights, a left… another right. She stops before the second door on the left, turns back to you and grips you tightly by the upper arm. 

“ _Say nothing_ ,” she hisses, so quietly you have to strain to hear her. There’s a wild, almost _rabid_ look in her eye that’s telling you you’d do well to listen here. “ _Follow my lead_.”

You give her the barest hint of a nod, holding her gaze for a second to let her know you mean it. 

Satisfied, she turns back, squares up her shoulders, and raises a fist to knock. 

_Thunk-thunk!_

Mere seconds after her knuckles rap the wood, the door swings inward to reveal—

Oh, wonderful. 

Big-Biceps Blondie is blocking out the entire doorway, puffing out his massive chest and fixing you with a malicious glare that might shrivel a lesser person. 

Well, a lesser person you are not. 

Years upon years of training has ensured you never will be. Not again. 

It’s a beat or two before someone breaks the tense silence. 

“ _She’s waiting for you_ ,” Blondie rumbles. 

Then, without warning, he makes to leave—cutting directly in between you and Yelena, causing the both of you to retreat a step and turn to allow him passage. Plenty of room. 

Regardless, he tarries almost imperceptibly to shoulder-check your injured side before making his way through. Agony erupts in your shoulder all at once, searing you from the inside out. It’d be a fucking miracle if he didn’t reopen the wound. 

Even so, you grit your teeth and bear it. 

Pain will be compartmentalized. 

You turn to glare at him as he limps down the hallway, his gait heavy and strained. Your shoulder aches, your head pounds, and it takes all your training to suppress a growl. 

_Asshole_. 

“ _That’s Alexei_ ,” Yelena murmurs, her gaze intent and almost curious upon you… like she’s daring you to recognize him, but knows that you don’t. 

“ _I knew him before_ ?” you say. Hardly a question, but you pose it as one anyway.

Yelena gives a brief, almost indiscernible nod. “ _Yes_.”

With that, she turns her eyes forward and steps forth to enter the room.

Bitchy Blonde sits prim and proper at a sizable, polished wooden desk. Lacquered mahogany, if you had to guess. Her hands are clasped neatly behind a gleaming silver nameplate that reads “ _MADAME E_.” in large block letters. 

Ah. So your earlier suppositions about her were correct. Not particularly surprising, but it’s always nice to receive confirmation. 

At her back and a full step to her left stands another woman—straight raven-black hair pulled into a neat bun; s-shaped brows; a keen, icy-blue-eyed gaze cold enough to make Alexei’s seem kind in comparison. She’s a little taller than average—maybe 5’8” (1.73m) if you had to hazard a guess—and noticeably older. Definitely a graduate. 

“ _Shut the door behind you_ ,” Madame speaks, cool and concise.

You do, before turning back to face her impassively at Yelena’s side. 

Her slate-grey eyes carefully appraise the pair of you before she nods at two wooden chairs sitting before her desk. “ _Sit_ ,” she says. 

You do, glimpsing Yelena doing the same out of your periphery. 

She turns to Yelena. “ _Progress report_ ?”

“ _Angel is recovering well_ ,” Yelena begins monotonously. 

You’re careful to keep your expression placid—revealing nothing. You don’t allow your gaze to stray to the woman behind her, either, though the temptation is there. 

“ _Response times in combat are satisfactory; agility and decision-making are also sufficient. Weaponry scores are perfect save for Tanto blades and the bow and arrow_.” That strikes a chord within you—just as it did in training when you first caught sight of each weapon in question—though you don’t for the life of you know why. “ _I estimate in a day or two, they will be up to par_.”

Madame affords Yelena a curt nod. Then, she turns to you. “ _Anything to add_ ?” she inquires judiciously, brow raised. 

You shake your head, carefully holding her gaze. “ _No, Madame_.”

“ _Good_.” She unclasps her hands to reveal two files atop her desk. Without a word, she slides them toward either of you and nods for you to take them. You do. “ _The mission_.”

It’s a plain-looking file, devoid of any emblematic markings. You wait to open yours until the telltale sound of shuffling paper from beside you confirms that Yelena has begun rifling through hers.

From there, all bets are off.

(Another American expression. _Jesus Christ_.)

‘ _MISSION: ARZAMASSKAIA_ ’ is stamped on the inside of the front cover in black ink. It rings a bell far back in the distant recesses of your mind—but then again, many things do these days. You’re quick to do away with it. 

Its contents: A set of surveillance photos… Each shot takes up an entire page. They’re all in color, too, instead of the customary black and white. 

This must be important. 

A sandy-haired, stern-looking man wearing a flannel, blue jeans, and brown boots—typical Midwestern American attire. His surroundings only confirm his locale—lush, green grass; a wooden pen for animal-keeping; a large, white, two-story house with a wraparound porch and a sizable barn less than a hundred paces over. 

The next picture is of the same man. He’s perched on the rooftop corner of a high-rise building in what looks to be New York City as it’s ravaged by extraterrestrial life-forms. He’s dressed in all-black clothing, leaving only his head and well-muscled arms uncovered. In his hands rests a compound bow—likely custom-made, judging by the intricacy of the design—with an arrow nocked as he peers down the sights towards ground-level. 

He’s an archer. 

That… That’s familiar. You remember that. 

The Alien Invasion of New York. 2012?

Why in the hell would you care about something like that?

The sound of flipping papers snaps you from your reverie. 

You eye the photo on your lap carefully, searching for hints as to who this man— _mark_ —may be. 

A flicker of memory in your mind’s eye, along with a single name—Barton. The hawk who spared the life of… the spider. S.H.I.E.L.D. agent… Avenger?

_Hawkeye_ ! Clint Francis Barton. 

Designation: Hostile. Threat Assessment: High. 

Mark identified, you flip to the next photo…

… and feel your gut clench painfully in your abdomen. 

Pin-straight red hair… shiny, like polished copper. Leather jacket, jeans, boots; a lithe redheaded woman standing in the middle of the street in a metropolitan setting. Twin pistols in hand, firing upwards at… something. A visible crease between her well-shaped brows; practiced expertise in her stance. 

Stomach churning, you flip to the next photo. 

Her hair is darker, this time—curly and longer, too—but there’s no mistaking that it’s the same person. A black skin-tight suit clings to her like a second skin—not terribly practical… but, as evidenced by the crumpled bodies in her wake, she’s making it work for her. In her hands, twin pistols—again. It’s from security cam footage at—your eyes dart to the bottom-right corner—“Hammer Industries.”

Hammer Industries… the Stark Expo. Tony Stark, Justin Hammer… Ivan Vanko. 

You were there for that—some of it, at least. You don’t know how, but you were. 

Why? 

A mission? Perhaps.

And yet, you can’t help feeling as though there’s something else…

All at once, it hits you like a sucker punch to the gut— _Natalia_.

_‘Protect Natalia.’_

Red hair, green eyes… a prima ballerina pirouetting flawlessly across an empty stage. Blood stains the toes of her shoes, leaving wet red marks everywhere she steps. There were 28 dancers in the Bolshoi… and then there was one.

This… _Natalia_. This is her. 

She was called Natalia Alianovna Romanova. 

She was the Widow. She defected. She’s… an Avenger now. 

Why would you protect an Avenger? 

“ _Two targets_ ,” Madame’s cold, even voice interrupts your inner musings. You glance up only to find her staring right back at you. It’s… unnerving, to say the least. “ _They are to be eliminated by any means necessary. Both are highly skilled and well-trained. In fact, I’m sure you must recognize them_.”

Her words echo in your brain. _‘Eliminated’... ‘by any means necessary.’_

Already, they’ve managed to take the term ‘shitshow’ to an entirely new level—even by your standards. 

Not to mention, _none_ of this makes sense. 

Why now? Why put a hit out on the Widow _now_ , after years of allowing her free reign in the States to frolic alongside her merry band of costumed superheroes?

Why is she sending you and Yelena to carry it out? Two comparatively inexperienced graduates against the notorious Black Widow? 

That’s not even to _mention_ the fact that both you and Yelena appear to harbor some sort of personal attachment to the target in question. The healed-over carvings in your skin and Yelena’s refusal to even speak of her is evidence enough of that.

It can’t be a coincidence. Can it?

The sole message past-you was so desperate to remember after the chair—‘ _Protect Natalia._ ’

And here you sit, little over a day later, holding her kill order in your lap?

Sometimes, you really wish your life would just be boring for once. 

“... _After all_ ,” Madame continues, jarring you back to the current moment. “ _Romanoff’s superhero status caused quite the stir in our beloved country due to her… storied past_.”

“ _Avengers_ ,” you venture numbly. If she wants to slap you for speaking out of turn, so be it. You’re desperate for that confirmation—that assurance that the dots you’re connecting in your head aren’t a farce. 

Madame nods. “ _America’s chosen heroes_ ,” she accedes. “ _In all likelihood, they’ll be surrounded by other members of their star-spangled team_.” 

She doesn’t mention Natalia’s former status as the Black Widow—not in so many words, at least. You’re not delusional enough to think that it’s because she somehow isn’t aware. 

Curious. 

“ _The other self-proclaimed Avengers will be secondary targets. Terms of engagement_ …” She pauses, then, ash-grey eyes flickering with something like annoyance. “ _Inconclusive, due to their diverse enhanced majority and erratic behavioral patterns as witnessed since their first known collaboration in New York City_.” 

2012\. The Battle of New York. 

“ _Regardless, I expect you’ll use your best judgement. If you see an opportunity, take it. If you see a weakness, exploit it. But above all else, these two_ …” —she nods succinctly toward the files splayed across either of your laps— “... _are your primary objectives. You either eliminate them, or you die trying_.”

You scan the file cover-to-back three times more before daring to ask the question burning on the tip of your tongue. 

“ _This file doesn’t include any mentions of transport or point of engagement_ …” you remark cautiously, ensuring that your voice is stale but firm. “ _Are we to go to New York City?_ ”

Perhaps it’s a shortsighted question—and yet, you can’t help feeling as though the absence of a given locale is peculiar… a break from tradition. 

You could call the Black Room many things, but progressive isn’t one of them. 

Madame’s thin lips curl into a cold smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “ _No, Angel_.” God, you just got that stupid name, and somehow, you already hate it. “ _In fact, this mission won’t require any travel at all_.”

You raise your brows in a silent question, but otherwise say nothing. 

You may be brash, but you’re not going to hand her the opportunity to smack the shit out of you (again) on a silver fucking platter. 

A silver platter… a phrase commonly used in English-speaking countries. Birthed from Biblical origins—more specifically, the Gospel of Mark. Herodias, who petitioned her father Herod for the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter… 

God fucking dammit. Your head’s a mess of holes and arbitrary tangents. 

You tune back in just in time to hear Madame elucidate: “ _They are on their way here as we speak. They seek to… liberate our girls_.” Her lips twitch, and there’s a fleeting glimmer of something like mirth in her sky-grey eyes. “ _A laughable endeavor_.” 

Your gut twists. How the hell are you supposed to protect Natalia if she’s coming _here_ ? 

Does she have a _fucking_ death wish? 

As the thought comes, you’re hit with the strangest sense of déjà vu—like you’ve thought that exact same thing a hundred different times. 

Well, considering how horribly this _undertaking_ of Natalia’s is inclined to end—that is, not well; you think it’s more than fair to deduce that this most recent venture is but the tip of the Freudian iceberg where the former Widow’s audaciousness is concerned. 

At least it’s Yelena who asks the next question, allowing you a brief reprieve: “ _ETA_ ?”

Madame’s expression remains perfectly placid as she replies, “ _They will strike tonight under the cover of dark_.”

Yelena doesn’t blink. “ _Is that confirmed_ ?”

“ _No_ ,” Madame admits, though she seems anything but bothered. “ _Yet I know it’ll be their play. It’s exactly what I would do_.”

Surreptitiously, you examine Madame a little more intently over the desktop. The way she speaks of Natalia, the bemused gleam in her eye… it’s as if she _knew_ her once upon a time. Or perhaps that’s just what she wants you to think. 

“ _So, we will allow them to attack the Academy_ ?” Yelena asks. It’s something of a sardonic query on its own, though she does well to deliver it as anything but.

“ _The Academy itself will be empty come nightfall—save for seven hand-picked operatives. You will defend this institution and complete your primary objectives, or you will die trying_.” 

You wait for Madame to offer up more information on that front—preferably, the identities of the other five operatives in question. 

No such luck. 

“ _Secondary briefing will be in T-minus 150 minutes. There will be no dinner tonight, as the evacuation will be put into effect momentarily_.” 

_How are they planning to do that?_ you wonder. _Underground tunnels, perhaps? There’s no way they would risk an aboveground exodus, not with Tony Stark’s technology in play_... 

“ _For sustenance, consume a share of rations._ ”

You don’t wrinkle your nose at that, though you’re sorely tempted. 

With that, Madame clasps her pale, bony hands together. “ _Dismissed_ ,” she decrees.

You follow Yelena’s lead to the letter—shut your file, stack it neatly atop hers on the desktop behind Madame’s silver nameplate, then turn to leave without a word. 

It’s awkward, the silence, but it suits you just fine. 

Your head is reeling—and not just from the blocks in your memory. 

Worse—the way this day is going, you’ll end up dead as a fucking doornail before you get the chance to sort it all out. 

— —

You drag Yelena to your room directly after the briefing. She’s pissed about it, if the murderous glare she shoots you is any indication, but you’re not going to let this go. 

She must realize that, because other than scowling and muttering a couple choice words in Russian under her breath, she comes along with relative ease. 

The moment you’re alone in your room, you’re quick to shut the door. 

A quick survey of the room around you tells you it’s precisely the same unto what you’d observed from the moment you first awoke—no cameras. 

Still, you didn’t come this far without being cautious. ‘Paranoid’ perhaps would be a better descriptor. 

You look down to Yelena, who’s seated herself stiffly on the edge of your mattress. 

After a moment’s consideration, you sign her in РЖЯ—the official sign language of the deaf community in Russia.

You’re not particularly adept at it (a fluent signer would pick you out right away), so you keep it simple: _Cameras?_

Yelena shakes her head. 

You nod, though that doesn’t relax your vigilance. At all. _Bugs?_ you ask. 

At that, Yelena shrugs. She doesn’t know. 

Okay. Okay, you can work with that. _How’s your РЖЯ?_ you sign next.

_Better than yours_ , she replies without a beat of hesitance, a knowing smirk curving her lips, and damn her, but she’s right. The movements of her hands are quick and smooth as she signs—damn near proficient enough to simulate fluency. 

Still, you roll your eyes and huff out a noiseless scoff—even if it’s more to keep up the pretense than anything else. 

_Natasha Romanoff is Natalia_ , you sign—slower this time. To be perfectly honest, that’s more for your benefit than Yelena’s. Your brain hasn’t quite yet caught up with all of it. 

Yelena looks cross—though admittedly, that’s well in-character for her—but eventually hazards a shallow nod. 

_Yes_ , she confirms. _‘Natasha’ is the Anglican-ized version of ‘Natalia.’_

She gesticulates that last part slowly, deliberately—like you’re a fucking sixth-year; like you don’t already know that (which she damn well knows that you do). 

_Jackass_. 

If you weren’t so high-strung at the current moment, you might flip her the bird for the smartass comment. 

‘Smartass’… Someone called you that, once. A girl… ? And… And you _liked_ it. Liked _her_. 

No. You cut off that train of thought before it can go any further. No time to be thinking of girls—even pretty ones with ocean eyes and a smile like the perfect sunrise. 

You focus back on Yelena, who’s unabashedly scrutinizing you with a slight frown. Clearly, your brief lapse has not gone unnoticed. (Not that you ever dreamed it might.) 

_Natalia was the Black Widow_ , you indicate next, willing yourself to focus. _The real one_. 

And just like that, the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. 

There’s nothing but dead silence for a beat… then two… then three.

Eh. You’re content to wait it out. 

_Yes_ , Yelena signs finally even as the heat from her glare rivals that of Venus. 

Venus… an apt comparison, if not a tad unusual. Second planet from the sun, approximately the same size as Earth, no moons or rings, a mean temperature of 464° C (~867° F). 

Huh. Well isn’t your brain filled with little golden nuggets of hidden information just waiting to be unearthed. 

You remember the significance of The Annunciation. You remember the Biblical verse (Ecclesiastes 1:2) Yelena spoke of as you eyed your own reflection in the baths. You remember the median temperature of the planet Venus, for Christ’s sake. 

And yet, you can’t remember the important things—the ones that _matter_.

It’s maddening. 

Shaking yourself from your thoughts, you urge yourself (again) to focus on the task at hand—cross-examining the only semi-credible witness you’ve got in this place. 

_You cared for her_ , you sign. 

Yelena’s eyes flash with indignation. _I care for no one_.

You bypass that negation entirely, even if it is a crock of bullshit; you’re not much in the mood for a petty spat. 

_Why would Madame choose us for this?_ you signal instead. _We both knew her. We both have history with her_.

Something cautious—almost _fearful_ —flits through Yelena’s gaze for a brief moment even as her features remain impassive. _You remember?_

_Some_ , you sign with a shrug, unwilling to tip your hand while Yelena’s being so uncharacteristically… forthcoming. That alone has every alarm bell in your head shrieking like a horde of banshees. 

‘Forthcoming’ doesn’t exist here. If it does, it’s eradicated quickly. 

It serves a purpose, of course—as all things are wont to do. 

You’re taught to use it (the illusion of it, anyhow) for the sole purpose of equivocation and deception. It’s for luring the mark—making them feel in control. If you do it right, they won’t even live long enough to know they’ve lost it. 

A means to an end. Nothing more, nothing less. 

All this runs through your mind in the blink of an eye even as Yelena deftly signs, _Then you know how dangerous she is. You know that we don’t have room for your weakness_.

You take the jab in stride. _Madame didn’t even tell us why she wanted Natalia dead_.

_She’s an enemy of Russia—a dissenter_ , Yelena motions back with a shrug—though there’s a slight, almost imperceptible flutter of her eyelid that implies she’s harboring similar doubts. _Isn’t that reason enough?_

_She’s been in America for years_ , you argue back. _And all of a sudden, Madame decides to give a shit? C’mon. This is far too sudden_.

_Or maybe long overdue_ , she motions.

You eye her for a beat… then two. _You don’t really believe that_.

_The math is simple_. Yelena rises to her feet, still signing rapidly with practiced agility, resolve hardening in her gaze. _We kill Grandma Widow and the archer, or we get slaughtered alongside them when Madame sends another team to finish the job. Personally, I’d prefer the former_.

_Natalia is not the enemy_ , you sign hastily. It’s the closest you’ll allow yourself to get to outright pleading, and judging by the tightness in Yelena’s jaw, she knows it. 

_She’s our mission_ , Yelena counters, glaring. _That makes her the enemy_.

You don’t know who she’s trying to convince—you or herself. 

With that, she brushes past you to pry open the door—though, not before shoulder-checking your wounded shoulder roughly enough to rip open the scab, _again_.

Right out of Alexei’s playbook—and isn’t he just the ideal paradigm?

Then, without a word, she slips out into the hallway and leaves in perfect silence. 

With Yelena gone, you shut the door behind her and turn back to the window. 

It’s afternoon, still. Bleak, cloudy… overcast skies. Buildings in the distance… all relatively generic-looking save for one: the Cathedral. 

You sigh, shaking the thought from your head and begin to pace. 

You’ve got exactly two and a half hours to come up with a plan—preferably one that doesn’t end with Yelena, Natalia, or her precious Avengers pushing up daisies. 

— —

You learn a couple things when Yelena shows up at your door and drags you to the secondary briefing Madame had spoken of. 

Namely—the five other operatives. 

For starters, the short-haired blonde from the commissary. White, 1.75m (~5’9”), and at least a couple decades older than you, if you had to hazard a guess. 

She’s dressed in a black tank top, khakis, and combat boots. Her arms are… fucking _huge_ , and her muscle definition is insane—even by Black Room standards. Twin machine pistols rest on either hip—Škorpions, if you’re not mistaken. She scowls at you when you dare to meet her gaze. 

You are to call her Один ( _Ah- deen_ )—‘One,’ in Russian. It’s hardly a name—but then again, those are exceptionally rare in this place. 

Beside her—a tall barrel-chested man with largely conventional European features: dark hair shorn into a neat crew cut, icy-blue eyes, and a strong square-ish jaw. 1.8m (6’0”), easy, and close to the blonde woman in age, judging by his lined features. Dressed identically. A standard-issue RPK is strapped to his back—a curious choice. 

He is Два ( _Dva_ )—‘Two.’ 

Next—a shorter but exceedingly well-muscled black man. Bald, with a wide-bridged nose and full lips. Perhaps 1.7m (~5’7”), with oakwood-brown eyes and an implacably calm demeanor. Slightly younger than his counterparts, but easily a decade (or two) older than you. Four throwing knives (at least, that you can see) hang from his belt. Idly, you wonder if he has something against guns. 

Три ( _Tree_ )—‘Three.’

Then… a young man who can’t be any more than four or five years older than you are. He’s tall—1.8m (5’11”), perhaps, if not taller. Smooth, unblemished skin a couple shades lighter than yours. 

Brown hair buzzed close to his scalp; the beginnings of dark stubble lining his thin jaw. 

Likely of Latin or Hispanic descent, by your best guess—though the eyes kind of throw that assumption for a loop: glimmering orange irises—just a little burnt, like orange topaz. Enhanced? He’s dressed identically to the others, save for a jacket that does well to hide his slight build. 

Четыре ( _Chet- tee-ree_ )—‘Four.’ You make a mental note to come back to him, later. 

At his back stands Alexei. He makes five. 

You and Yelena make seven. 

The meeting is brief. No one speaks—save for Madame, of course. She gestures to a cork board littered with surveillance photos and data on each target, encouraging everyone to study it while she speaks. 

Each neatly-scrawled name feels like a needle sinking its way into your brain. 

Steve Grant Rogers. Codename: Captain America. 

Designation: Hostile. Threat Assessment: Deadly.

_Newspapers in his shoes_... 

Anthony “Tony” Edward Stark. Codename: Iron Man. 

Designation: Hostile. Threat Assessment: High.

_‘Little Red’… Chinese takeout?_

Samuel “Sam” Thomas Wilson. Codename: Falcon.

Designation: Hostile. Threat Assessment: Moderate.

_‘You’re a kid. And… why don’t you have shoes on?’_

Maria Hill. Codename: N/A.

Designation: Hostile. Threat Assessment: High.

_Didn’t I steal her knife?_

Something in your chest tightens when Madame inevitably lands on the headshot of a somber-looking man: James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes. He’s handsome enough, you suppose, with dark brown hair that tickles his ears and a fair amount of stubble lining his well-defined jaw. 

His eyes… blue. So fucking blue. And the arm… metal. Vibranium. In one of the full-body surveillance shots, you can just make out the outline of a red star painted onto his gleaming deltoid—chipped and weathered with time. 

_Soldat_.

The realization hits you with all the force of a brick wall. Though, if anyone else recognizes him—or clocks his connection to the Program—they don’t let on. 

James “Bucky” Buchanan Barnes. Codename: Winter Soldier. 

Designation: Hostile. Threat Assessment: Deadly.

_He hated New Jersey… Had a best friend he called ‘Stevie.’_

You knew him, and he knew you. 

_Fuck_. 

If you thought Soldat’s picture hit hard, you’re not at all prepared for the next one.

Long chestnut-brown hair; pale smooth skin. Defined cheekbones, ocean eyes… a faint spattering of freckles across the bridge of her delicate nose. 

There are no close-up shots of her hands, but that matters little. You know what they look like. 

Slender, elegant… slim fingers bearing an assortment of metal rings on each hand. 

Wanda Maximoff. Codename: Scarlet Witch.

Designation: Hostile. Threat Assessment: Deadly. 

You don’t want to fight her. 

Your entire being feels like revolting when you think of squeezing your filthy hands around her pretty neck. Slashing her carotid with your blade… shooting round after round of bullets into her gorgeous body, pumping her full of lead even as her blood stains your hands because she’s gone and she’s not breathing anymore but you need to be sure. You _need_ her to be dead. 

You barely hear the rest of the briefing—too caught up in a nightmare of your own design. 

You internalize the important things, of course; your training wouldn’t allow for anything less. But as it is, you’re distracted, and it’s hardly a wonder as to why that is. 

Things just got so much more complicated.

— —

A half an hour after the second briefing finds you pacing (again), head throbbing and hands trembling as you wrestle with your own thoughts. For Christ’s sake, you don’t even know where to _begin_. 

And then—a series of sounds punctures the otherwise tranquil ambiance. You stop your pacing mid-stride, tilting your head to listen. 

Clicking noises—like switches being thrown—followed by a low metallic shudder, coming from… 

Your gaze darts up to the rectangular ventilation cover secured just above the door frame—no more than 14 by 24 centimeters (~5.5” x 9.5”). Just large enough for you to squeeze up and into the shafts with relatively little trouble, should the situation call for it. 

Careful to avoid making a sound, you step closer. 

Another metallic shudder—this one notably quieter than the last. More clicking noises. Muffled voices echoing down through the ventilation shaft—male, otherwise indistinguishable. You can’t hear them well enough to understand what they’re saying. 

On a whim, you rise up until you’re on the tips of your toes, allowing your hand to hover over the vent and feel for any output—and promptly frown as a gust of cool air hits your palm. 

_Strange_.

Why would they ventilate cool air into the Academy while it remains cold enough outside to blanket most everything in a glistening frost?

You ease yourself back down onto the flats of your feet and return to pacing once more. Your thoughts are going warp-speed. 

The ventilation shafts… Why would they be messing with those? What does routine maintenance to the Academy matter if Madame plans to abandon it by nightfall? 

Answer: It doesn’t. 

You’d already suspected that the mission as presented unto you and Yelena was incongruous at best. This could almost certainly lead to something bigger. 

After some internal debate, your decision is made. 

You try to picture the layout of the building in your head—particularly the ventilation system. 

Four floors of the Academy (not including the basement). You’re on the second. Fourth floor is maintenance and laboratories… And the hulking ventilation unit is just above that, sitting on the trapezoidal junction between the east and west wings atop the roof. 

You slip a knife from the waistband of your leggings. It’s small—perhaps a 7.5cm (~3”) blacksteel blade, and not nearly quite as sharp as you’d like. 

No matter. It’ll slice through a jugular just fine, and do away with the screws bolting down the ventilation cover in a pinch. Really, that’s all you need.

Apprehension crawling beneath your skin, you take a deep breath, curling your fingers tightly around the knife in your grip. 

Here goes nothing. 

— —

When you finally manage to squirm your way up to floor four, a hot gust of air fills the ducts—slapping you right in the face with a heat so warm, it makes your eyes water. 

It gets worse, too, if you can believe it. 

It gets hotter and hotter by the second, overheating your body until sweat dribbles down your temples. The next vent you reach peers down into a vaguely familiar-looking laboratory (thereby shedding some measure of light inside the pitch-dark ventilation shaft). 

And then—a flicker of movement. With bated breath, you look a little harder… and see it again. A rippling in the air near the vent… heat waves.

Oh, joy. 

With that revelation, you turn your gaze forward and urge yourself to carry on.

It’s hellish. 

Sweat soaks through your leggings and long-sleeve shirt, plastering the wet fabric to your skin. Still, it provides some measure of protection from the rapidly heating metal pressing you in on every side as you pull yourself along; for that, you’re grateful.

Sweat-slick dust covers your body in a thin layer of grime. Every press of your palms against the duct or the flats of your bare feet holding you fast burns something awful. 

If you don’t get out of here _fast_ , you’ll have third-degree burns and peeling flesh to show for it. 

Fucking hell. 

You pull yourself along further, careful not to make a sound. Your fingertips throb, your lungs ache… sweat is streaming down your face like a damn waterfall. 

You pass by three more vents until you reach a somewhat decent-looking prospect. It’s… a large room about the size of a walk-in closet, filled with shelves of medical supplies. 

In a perfect world, you’d like more time to scope it out first—surveil it for at least an hour or two to get a feel for the flow of traffic coming in and out of the area. 

But when you pull your right hand away from the searing-hot metal of the shaft, it takes no small amount of effort—not to mention, it throbs like a bitch. When you chance a look, you find that you’re bleeding where the heated metal tore off pieces of your skin: the base of your hand, just above the high crease of your palm… all five fingertips. 

Ow. 

You suppose it’s a good thing you’ve always been better with your left hand. 

You slip the knife from your sports bra, shimmy forward a little further on your stomach until you’re right over the vent covering. God, but the heat is borderline unbearable. 

Then, careful to keep your toes from touching the walls of the shaft, you get to loosening the screws.

— —

Well, as luck would have it, some poor soul in a stark-white hazmat suit decides to scurry in just moments before you’re set to drop down from the air ducts. 

Perfect.

You adjust your angle before vaulting yourself over such that you land right on their back—American piggyback-riding style. They damn near collapse under the sudden burden of weight (not to mention the considerable momentum you’d gathered coming down), but you secure a solid grip around their shoulders and hold fast until they steady themselves. 

They don’t even get a word out before you’re curling a sweat-drenched arm around their neck and squeezing like your life depends on it. 

You can’t get enough leverage to snap the neck, but that matters little. They’re weak, untrained… painfully low on muscle mass. From their figure and the curve of their hips beneath your thighs, they’re likely a female. 

For some entirely inexplicable reason, you make the split-second decision not to kill her. 

In minutes, she’s sprawled on the floor—out cold. Brown eyes, brunette hair peeking out from beneath a hair net. Tanned skin. Perhaps mixed-race, or Italian. Pretty, though her nose and mouth remain covered beneath a standard-issue face mask. 

Yeah. You can definitely make this work. 

With a bit of effort, you drag her into a small storage closet in the very back corner of the room. 

There’s a big-ass yellow sign plastered to the door of it that reads “ _ **CAUTION: BIOLOGICAL HAZARD**_ ,” and all the vials of technicolored liquid stored in various refrigeration units within don’t exactly look like Kool-Aid… but it’s isolated and hidden, and that’s more than good enough for you. 

Besides—at this point in your life, you’re essentially a living, breathing cocktail of hazardous chemicals and gamma radiation and God knows what else thrumming through your veins at any given moment. What’s a little more gonna hurt? 

You remove the woman’s helmet after a bit of fiddling with the suit. It’s… obnoxiously big, with a large plastic screen in the front through which to see. You’re already loath to put it on yourself.

You set it to the side, and start unzipping her suit. Well, thank fuck—she’s wearing a fresh pair of scrubs. They’re… dark purple, which is significantly less enthusing, but whatever.

Without a beat of hesitance, you start undressing her. 

A half a minute later, your sweat-damp clothing has been discarded in a nearby bin that’s labelled for toxic waste, and you’re tying the thin white drawstring around your waist in a neat double-looped knot. 

Sure, it’s not the most sanitary thing in the world, but it’s far better than what you had before. Besides, it’s not like you took her bra or panties—just the top and pants. 

Then, you snatch her face mask and her ID—loop the mask around your ears such that it covers your nose and mouth, pin the ID to the breast pocket of the scrubs.

Your name is Angela de Carlo, MD. Ah. You were right: Italian roots, American doctor. In the bottom right corner of the plastic card… a logo. A blocky ‘R’ —beneath it, the word ‘ROXXON’ in small, thick font. 

Agony explodes inside your skull. It’s like you should remember… 

You’ve seen that before. Right?

Another metallic shudder from the overhead vents snaps you out of your reverie.

Head throbbing, you shake away the befuddlement and force yourself to finish what you’re doing: wrangling your hair into the hair net, tugging the big white hazmat suit over each of your limbs, securing the helmet. 

The woman is slumped against the wall, now—motionless, half-naked, but alive. 

Alive. 

If Madame could see you right now, consciously making the choice to spare a loose end… She’d shoot you dead without blinking, then continue pumping bullets into your body until all the forensics in the world couldn’t identify the mangled corpse of you if they tried. 

A full-bodied shudder runs down your spine at the thought. 

It better not come back to bite you in the ass. 

Stomach curling with nausea, you catch sight of your reflection (faint as it may be) in the sliding-glass door of the leftmost refrigeration unit. You hardly recognize yourself. That cognizance dissipates a fraction of your unease. 

Beneath the mask, you feel your lips curve into a smile. 

Time for Dr. de Carlo to get back to work. 

— —

All the action is happening primarily in one of the labs—Testing Room Г, as it’s labeled. 

A bit of wrestling with your suit, a single swipe of Angela’s ID through the card-reader… and, boom. Access granted. 

You square your shoulders, enact an air of brisk efficacy, and enter the laboratory.

It’s a spacious room—various metal tables bordering the edges with two metal stools at each. Two expensive-looking fume hoods on opposite sides; rows of steel cupboards lining every wall. No safety shower to be seen, nor so much as a fire extinguisher in sight, but you suppose that’s not all that surprising. 

Everyone is replaceable. 

Lastly, a refrigeration unit sits in the far back where the only other two people there (clad in hazmat suits identical unto your own) stand before it conversing with one another in hushed whispers. They hardly look up as you enter. 

Doing another brief scan of the room, you scour for something to do—a way to look busy while simultaneously gathering intel. 

Your gaze falls to a PC laptop sitting open on one of the desks. Judging by what’s visible on the screen—Mail.ru taking up half the display; a familiar-looking format that you somehow just know is the Black Room Academy database taking up the other half—that’s Angela’s computer. 

Perfect. 

You make a beeline straight for it, dropping yourself onto the stool like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you _belong_ there. 

It takes a little wrangling, but quickly enough, you find that the gloves of the suit are detachable. You yank the left one off but keep the right one on as you scroll through the database, drinking up every pixelated figure on the screen like a woman starved. 

It looks like… 

_Interesting_. 

Angela had been fiddling with the ventilation system, as evidenced by the multi-colored layout detailing all four floors of air flow on the screen. Air pressures; temperatures in Kelvin. And just beneath it, a window of—

You drag it over with the mouse, and have to stifle an impressed huff at what you see as it’s brought to the forefront. 

Code. At least 80 lines of it—the last nine of which appear to be recent additions. 

And the configuration… Эль-76. 

Well. Isn’t that a blast from the past?

Dr. Angela de Carlo is growing more interesting by the minute. 

So, she was responsible for the apparent malfunctioning of the air conditioning system. But, why would she care about something like that?

What does that even matter, especially now?

You tab open another window—still in the database, logged in with Angela’s credentials. Then again, that footprint could mean dire consequences for her. 

You shrug off the thought. Depending on what you find, you can cover your (and her) tracks on the way out if need be. 

You click your way through a staff roster and a series of floor plans (which don’t include a tunnel system, you’re irked to note) before huffing out a sigh and taking a shortcut: keyword search… ‘ _ARZAMASSKAIA_.’

One result—MISSION: [REDACTED]. 

Operatives listed: Shostakov, Belova… Yes, this is it. 

Wonderful.

You open it up with haste, scrolling impatiently past the cover-letter disclaimer bullshit to find pages upon pages of [REDACTED] intel. 

You tug off your right glove, clocking the other two occupants of the room (who are still conversing quietly near the refrigeration unit) as you begin to type. 

It stings, using your injured hand to type—the pointer finger, especially. In no time at all, smears of blood cover the pale-grey keys on the right side of the board.

No matter. You’re almost there… 

And, finished. A self-regulating cipher. It should require no further assistance from the likes of you. 

You look it over once more before tapping the ‘Return’ key. You’ve never been one for self-indulgence—basking in your own achievement. And yet, watching the rows of black stripes purge themselves from the document page by page is satisfying beyond words can say.

But alas, your gratification is short-lived. 

The moment you scan the first paragraph—hell, the first _sentence_ , even; realization hits like a series of gut punches, squeezing all the air from your lungs. 

It’s a testament to your training that your jaw doesn’t drop beneath the face mask even as horror balloons in your chest like hot air—growing, growing, growing. It’s like a flower in bloom—a force of nature in its own right: pressing up against your ribs until they creak beneath the strain. 

For a solid ten seconds, you think you lose the ability to breathe. 

Desperately, you skim through the rest of the report, fingertips flying over the mousepad.

It doesn’t get better. In fact, it actually gets worse. So much worse. 

This is… _insane_. 

Oh, _fuck_. 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> **sources / clarification (if needed):**
> 
> [ecclesiastes 1:2](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Ecclesiastes%201-2&version=ESV)
> 
> [hammer industries](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Hammer_Industries) | a weapons manufacturing company led by [justin hammer](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Justin_Hammer), who worked with [ivan vanko](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Whiplash) in an attempt to upstage [tony stark](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Iron_Man) at the stark expo. appears in _iron man 2_.
> 
> [the biblical story behind the phrase “to hand [something] to [someone] on a silver platter”](https://www.phrases.org.uk/bulletin_board/23/messages/711.html#:~:text=%3A%20Silver%20is%20associated%20with%20affluence,the%20Baptist%20on%20a%20platter.)
> 
> [РЖЯ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_Sign_Language)
> 
> [venus (the planet)](https://solarsystem.nasa.gov/planets/venus/overview/)
> 
> [the annunciation (biblical reference)](https://www.britannica.com/topic/Annunciation-Christianity)
> 
> [roxxon corporation](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Roxxon_Corporation) | one of the world's largest comglomerates. founded by [hugh jones](https://marvelcinematicuniverse.fandom.com/wiki/Hugh_Jones). appears in _iron man_ , _iron man 2_ , and _iron man 3_. also appears in _agents of S.H.I.E.L.D._ , _agent carter_ , _daredevil_ , _cloak & dagger_, and _helstrom_.
> 
> 'Г' is the fourth letter of the russian alphabet. phonetically, it sounds a lot like an english 'G.' however, when used to label successive things, it would be the equivalent of the english 'D,' as 'D' is the fourth letter of the english alphabet. 
> 
> [Mail.ru](https://mail.ru/) is a popular messaging platform in russia, similar to gmail.
> 
> [Эль-76](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D0%AD%D0%BB%D1%8C-76) | _El’-76_ | a russian programming language developed from 1972-1973.
> 
> — —
> 
> a tad worried about how this one will be received because it's very reader-centric and a lot of it is just setting up plot points... so definitely feel free to let me know what you think!
> 
> ALSO i do have a whole plot in mind for how this is all gonna end, but that said, i am getting outta quarantine tomorrow morning (or technically this morning since it's 2:30am)... i can't say when i'll have time to be putting it down in writing, so please be patient with me!
> 
> aaand i'm gonna cross post this on the tumblr i made specifically for reader-insert works (some of which aren't available on my ao3) and answering writing-related asks... so if you wanna check that out, it's @novoaa1writes ([link](https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/))


End file.
